Last April, my husband, James, and I had friends, Petey and Becky, visiting, and we decided to go for a walk on the South Downs. We’d recently bought a house five minutes from the Downs, in Lewes, East Sussex, and headed towards Mount Caburn, the highest point in the area.
We were climbing a steep hill when I saw a sheep lying on its side and not moving. From afar, it looked as if it was dead, but then I saw a leg move. The boys said the movement was just the wind and wanted to keep going, but I went over and saw the head and hooves of a lamb coming out of her body. The head was dry, which suggested it had been there for quite a while. The ewe’s bottom was facing up this steep hill, so gravity wasn’t helping.
The sheep was barely breathing, and I thought it had completely exhausted itself – she didn’t even flicker when I approached. The lamb was unresponsive, and its eyes were bulging. We watched for a few minutes to see if there were any more contractions, because we didn’t want to intervene if it wasn’t necessary. But there was no movement so, despite knowing nothing about sheep, I said I was going to help.
The boys were really uncertain – they felt nature should take its course – and Becky went very quiet. But I felt we had to do something. Becky Googled “how to birth a lamb” and read me the instructions. One vital bit of information was that if the head is out and the two front hooves are tucked under the chin, that’s the correct birthing position. Becky showed me a couple of infograms, and I said, “I’m going in.”
There was a moment when I thought: “I’m really going to put my hands inside a sheep.” I was fresh from London and hadn’t anticipated my new country life being quite so hands-on. I knelt down and put one hand around the back of the lamb’s head and one on its chest, so my hands were slightly inside. It felt warm and alarming, and the ewe groaned but didn’t try to stop me. The mood was solemn, because we thought the lamb had died – but we could at least save the mother.
I had to give a few decent tugs until, after about two minutes, the lamb slipped out into my arms. It was limp and covered with fluid, but after a minute I felt a heartbeat. I felt joyous, but there was still more we had to do to make sure the lamb stayed alive. Becky had read that hypothermia is a common cause of death in newborn lambs, so I wrapped it in my jacket. James Googled how to clear mucus from its nose and mouth – it said to put a blade of grass up its nostrils to make it sneeze, and a finger inside her mouth to hook the mucus out. It felt like a baby’s mouth.
When the lamb was breathing and more robust, I tried to stand it up, but because it had been in the birthing position for so long, its legs kept curling under. The ewe had started passing a very large afterbirth, and still wasn’t responding. James and Petey hauled her to her feet, and once gravity started helping she passed the whole thing. Then she started eating grass as if nothing had happened.
We put the lamb on the ground to try to encourage Mum towards it. But it was still wrapped in my coat, which smelled like me, so the ewe ignored it. I didn’t want to remove the coat because the lamb was so damp and letting out little mews. However, I finally left it on the ground without the coat – but the ewe still ignored it. The lamb was tiny and shivering.
Petey said we should encourage the ewe towards the lamb, so we surrounded her and started “herding” her. She slowly went towards the lamb and eventually picked up the scent. She gave it a lick and the lamb slowly got to its wobbly feet. The mum kept licking, and after about five minutes the lamb was suckling. I felt very attached to the brave pair and found it quite hard to leave them. When we left, I realised I was covered in afterbirth. I wanted a hug, but nobody would touch me. When we got home, I put the coat straight in a hot wash.
A week later, James and I went for a drink with friends, and they invited us back for dinner. They had a leg of lamb in the oven, and I said, “I’m not eating lamb any more.” I haven’t eaten it since.
• As told to Caroline Sullivan. Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com
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